


Inattentional Blindness

by aussiebee



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Derek Hale Deserves Nice Things, Derek Hale is Bad at Feelings, Everyone Is Alive, Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, M/M, POV Derek Hale, The Hale Pack - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-10
Updated: 2019-11-10
Packaged: 2021-01-26 22:41:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21381778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aussiebee/pseuds/aussiebee
Summary: Derek finallyseesStiles... and then promptly melts down about it.He’s two people away from the counter, though, when it happens. Derek has just finished scanning the board overhead and let his eyes drift back down to the guy just in time to see him bend down to pick up his backpack from the floor when the guy turns. There’s a moment of complete cessation of brain activity when Derek’s libido registers lips! Eyes! Skinnnnn! before his thoughts begin spinning like a Gravitron, turning his brain to paste against the inside of his skull because what the fuck, the guy he’s been quietly lusting over while he waits in line for coffee is fucking Stiles.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 89
Kudos: 1458





	Inattentional Blindness

He blames sleep deprivation, this week’s near-death excursion, caffeine withdrawal, and his own traitorous dick when it happens.

And Scott, because directly or indirectly, most of the crap in Derek’s life these days can be traced back to that moron.

But mostly sleep deprivation.

And also Stiles and his fucking ridiculous shoulders, okay? Because when had that even _ happened? _ Ugh.

Freshly healed after regenerating his fucking _ liver- _ and _ no _ , Stiles, that will _ never _ be ‘hella cool’- Derek stumbles into the shower, vaguely waves the washer in the vicinity of his body in the hopes that the blood covering him will appreciate his intent and wash right off, before stumbling back out and standing beneath the heat lamps to dry. He’s pretty sure he falls asleep for a bit, because the sun definitely seems brighter now than it had when he’d climbed into the shower.

He supposes he should be grateful that he loses organs so infrequently that he forgets how much regrowing them takes it out of him.

Ugh, his_ life. _

When desperately willing his clothes to put themselves on his body doesn’t work, he whines piteously in his throat and trudges into the bedroom, pulling on his softest pair of jeans and a tee he doesn’t remember purchasing that is slightly too big through the shoulders and higher at the throat than he usually wears before shoving his keys and wallet into his pocket and heading for the elevator.

He waits for it slumped against the wall, an old Green Day song stuck in a loop in his head - which, _ rude, _ because he’s definitely _ not _ having the time of his life, okay?- and micro-naps again until he finds himself standing by the Camaro with no recollection of having walked there. He decides that driving right now is probably tempting fate in a way that even _ he _is leery of, and begins walking the three blocks to the coffee place that makes Stiles make noises that are going to get them thrown out one day, and never fails to score him the number of whichever barista is working at the time (and on one memorable occasion the cook) written on his cup.

He manages to make his way there without incident and he’s starting to feel a little bit better about the world and his place in it, so of course that’s when it happens. He pushes open the door to the coffee shop, walks in, and abruptly stops, because the line is practically to the door. Great.

He yawns widely and stretches his neck a little, trying to lose some of the stress that’s taken up permanent residence there. He’s only minorly successful in this, so he straightens up and lets his eyes wander around, a constant threat assessment that’s dulled today due to his fatigue.

Well, that’s his story, and he’s sure as hell sticking to it.

To his left he catalogues the guy lounging in the corner booth staring at his coffee like he wants to cry; the pretty young mother with her (frankly adorable) young boys enjoying breakfast with surprisingly good manners; the college students smiling shyly at each other over the tops of their laptops as their feet barely touch beneath the table; and the Professional Business Types, four of them, sat around a table and all on their phones ignoring their drinks and also each other.

He takes in the individuals in line, the staff, then looks over to the right, skimming over the guy with the long legs and tight ass at the condiments counter seemingly experimenting with all the syrups; the cluster of high school girls giggling and making cow-eyes at him; the several individuals nursing coffee and looking like they’re in varying states from nirvana to homicide; and then back again to the syrup-guy, because what the hell? It doesn’t hurt to look, right?

It’s a sight worth enjoying as the line shuffles forward, that’s for sure, because not only has the guy got legs a mile long and an ass that won’t quit, but he’s slender through the waist and has shoulders that look wide enough that Derek thinks he’d probably enjoy throwing his legs over them, for sure. Watching the muscles flex beneath the worn white tee, Derek watches idly as the guy’s muscle-corded arms flex when he screws the lids back on the various things that he’s opened, and when his shirt pulls against his ass and outlines the delineation of muscle on either side of his spine he thinks he might actually sigh a little.

He’s two people away from the counter, though, when it happens. Derek has just finished scanning the board overhead and let his eyes drift back down to the guy just in time to see him bend down to pick up his backpack from the floor when the guy turns. There’s a moment of complete cessation of brain activity when Derek’s libido registers _ lips! Eyes! Skinnnnn! _ before his thoughts begin spinning like a Gravitron, turning his brain to paste against the inside of his skull because what the _ fuck, _ the guy he’s been quietly lusting over while he waits in line for coffee is fucking _ Stiles. _

Derek sees the moment Stiles notices him, those beautiful eyes lighting up and sinful mouth curving into a wide smile, and as much as he would apparently love to stick around to watch it happen, he really just can’t, today.

“Nope,” he bleats awkwardly, one finger lifted to point accusatorily at Stiles, spinning on his heel and bolting from the coffee shop, and he’s tortured for the rest of the day by the hurt he’d seen flash through Stiles’ pretty eyes as he’d fled like a coward.

Fuck his entire fucking life.

* * *

And then the problem becomes that he just can’t _ unsee _ it.

Well, one of the problems, because a week passes and Stiles still smells like hurt and confusion sometimes when he thinks Derek doesn’t notice, and Derek feels like a dog. Which, once upon a time, he might have shared with Stiles just to see his whole body light up with glee over Derek being the one to crack a dog joke, but now just makes Derek feel even worse, and he still can’t help imagining the way the smooth, hot muscle of Stiles’ back would feel beneath his hands.

Everything is now suddenly super suggestive in a way Derek isn’t sure it was before, or maybe that he’d just had his head stuck spectacularly far up his own ass because he knows, logically, that Stiles didn’t just become incredibly sexy overnight. Probably.

But maybe… _ witches? _

No, it’s inattentional blindness, and Stiles is the gorilla in the shitshow that is their lives.

A terrible analogy, but his point remains.

But suddenly Stiles’ everything is everywhere, taunting Derek because he is a terrible person, apparently, and Stiles isn’t even eighteen, yet. His stupid, pretty face and his ridiculous, sexy hands, and the way his thighs flex when he runs and the tantalising trail of dark hair that starts beneath his navel and heads down and his brain, _ holy god _ his brain revs Derek’s engine more completely than if Stiles made a habit of parading through his apartment naked.

Probably.

(Derek is willing to test that theory, in the interests of _ science.) _

His mind is like a steel trap, or more like a black hole into which information falls but Stiles has the ability to draw back out again.

Derek is killing it with the analogies today.

But the way Stiles can jump from topic to unrelated topic, random fact to irrelevant tidbit and come up with a plan to save the day is breathtaking, and Derek thinks he could probably sit there happily and just watch him do it for hours, or forever. Or something. Shit.

So yeah, he’s a little bit gone on the guy, the _ kid _ , and he’s also a creeper, because: _ not yet eighteen. _ There’s a place in hell reserved for Derek, and at this point it might as well be the throne.

So he’s at home, minding his own business and definitely _ not _ obsessing about Stiles and the way the muscles in his shoulders had stood out in sharp definition when he had been doing pushups with the rest of the pack, when there’s a knock on his door. He startles, not having heard anyone approach, and tries desperately to ignore the way his heart leaps in his chest when he recognises Stiles’ particular heartbeat (intermittent atrial flutter, around sixty-two beats per minute at rest) as he crosses the loft to answer the door.

He looks freaking edible when Derek opens the door, in a butter-soft slightly too-large pair of jeans and a purple tee beneath an unusually subdued flannel to ward against the evening’s chill. He beams when Derek opens the door and holds up a pizza in one hand and a backpack in the other.

“Pizza and XBox?”

How the hell is Derek supposed to say no to a smile that sweet? So he lets Stiles in, lets the familiar cadences of his speech wash over him as Stiles sets up the console and then settles in at his side, passing him a controller. Derek doesn’t say much, never has to say much when it’s just the two of them, and they pass a few hours doing nothing but eating and hanging out. Eleven p.m. approaches and Stiles gets to his feet with a slap to Derek’s thigh.

“Good hanging out, dude; let’s do it again!”

And then he’s gone.

Derek is slightly bewildered, because this isn’t a thing he and Stiles _ do. _ They don’t just… hang out. The kid has friends of his own to hang out with, and to be honest he and Derek have never really been friends, per se, so much as friend _ ly, _ so the entire evening is slightly confusing.

But Derek sleeps like a baby that night, and in the morning treats himself to donuts for breakfast because he can’t come up with a good enough reason not to.

  
  


It kind of becomes a thing, after that. Not often, admittedly, but every couple of weeks, Stiles will just show up and they’ll spend a couple of hours doing a whole lot of not much. Derek likes it a lot, more and more every time, and he likes the way he starts to feel when Stiles is around. It’s easy, expectation-free company, and it’s fun. Stiles is the best kind of asshole- wittily acerbic without being cruel, incredibly observant and ruthlessly mocking of himself just as often as others, but he’s achingly intelligent, darkly hilarious and invites Derek to laugh with him in a way that is never forced.

Derek is really quite into it.

Derek has never been quite so fucked. At least, not in a way that feels so bizarrely _ good. _

* * *

It’s hot.

Not just a little bit hot, but steamy, sweltering, claw your own face off to get at a breeze, ungodly hot.

Derek _ loves _summer.

Which is to say he doesn’t, because who the fuck enjoys eighty percent humidity with highs of ninety-five? What he does enjoy, however, is Stiles in a god forsaken tanktop, and the play of muscles from scapula to wrist as he relaxes beneath a tree and fans himself with a well-thumbed paperback romance.

Did Derek say loves? He definitely means <strike>loves</strike> _hates._

They’re all at the pool, and the chlorine is giving him a headache and they don’t make sunglasses dark enough to deal with the glare beaming into his eyes off the water like lasers targeted specifically at melting his brain, but Stiles is there and where Stiles goes Derek will inevitably follow - and _ yes, _ okay, he _ knows _ how pathetic that is - but Stiles is there and while he’s not in the water _ yet, _ Derek has recently become a creature of hope, apparently.

“Pink,” Derek mutters, barely audible over the sounds of splashing, laughter and the scream of the kid who just got pushed off the high-dive.

“Hmm?” Stiles asks lazily from where he’s leaning back on his elbows on the grass next to Derek, both of them lounging in the shade as the others swim. And by swim he means Erica reclining on the pool’s edge in a bikini so small that one wrong twitch will get her arrested for indecent exposure while the rest of them try and drown each other in increasingly creative ways. The lifeguard looks like she’s about to have a stroke.

“Your shoulders,” Derek grits out, resolutely not looking at Stiles. “Getting pink.”

“Oh,” Stiles says, shifting to look. “Thanks.” He curls forward to sit up and reach into the bag with all their towels and various other paraphernalia, rummaging for a moment before emerging triumphant with a bottle of sunscreen. He pumps some into one hand and begins slathering up the opposite arm, then repeats the action on the other side. Derek is transfixed, obviously, and is therefore treated to Stiles reaching back behind his own head and pulling the tank off in one careless movement, before applying more sunscreen to the back of his neck and down between his shoulderblades.

He’s _ flexible, _ the way he’s contorting his body to get as much skin as possible.

Derek is _ dying. _

“You missed a spot,” his traitorous, porn-cliché-mouth says without his permission. “Here.” 

And then somehow, again without his permission, he reaches over to grab the sunscreen and simultaneously nudges the back of Stiles’ hip so he shifts until he’s sitting between Derek’s legs and _ then, _ contrary to everything he has ever believed about his luck or lack thereof, he has Stiles’ beautiful, creamy, perfect, _ warm _ skin beneath his hands.

One long slide from nape of neck to small of back.

And back up again.

Another to the left of that path.

Another to the right.

More sunscreen.

Hands on either side down his ribs to rest oh-so-briefly over slim hips, thumbs resting for a moment against lateral lumbar indentations.

Back up, fingers splayed wide and curled forward enough for fingertips to brush over startlingly-defined pectorals.

He admires the sifting musculature beneath constellated skin, the feeling of Stiles’ beloved heartbeat vibrating beneath his palms, the way his breath hitches slightly, the rumble of his voice translating through muscle and bone and skin into Derek’s hands and up his arms as though able to communicate with the deepest parts of him.

_ “Derek.” _

Slowly, as though coming out of a fog, Derek realises Stiles is talking to him, and by the tone of it has been for some time. “Yes.” What? Try again. “Yes?”

“I-” Stiles stops, clears his throat and tries again.

Derek’s hands are still resting on his hips.

“I think I’m good, dude.”

It’s said softly, gently, as though in consideration of the fugue state Derek has apparently found himself in, but Derek jerks back as though burned. Stiles partially turns as though he’s going to face Derek, but doesn’t complete the movement with a barely perceptible hesitation that Derek picks up because he’s Derek and this is Stiles and they’ve always been weirdly in tune like that. Rather than face whatever is on Stiles’ face - and reveal what’s no doubt displayed clearly all over his own - Derek busies himself with scooting back and away from Stiles, his whole body aching like it’s being cleaved from something vital, and by the time he’s ‘made himself more comfortable’ care of a brief pass of hand over crotch Stiles is up and standing beside Erica, nudging her thigh with his foot and laughing when her hand shoots out to wrap around his ankle and she threatens to push him in if he so much as dampens one of her perfectly-styled curls.

Watching them, all of them, as they splash around and share playful shoves and laughter lets something settle in Derek’s gut. He knows he’ll never be the best alpha out there, but he’s starting to think maybe he’ll be an okay one, even a good one someday. He knows this is majorly thanks to Stiles, who refuses and always has refused to allow Derek to believe the insidious voice in his head that sounds frightfully like Kate, especially in the earliest hours of the morning when everything is still blurry and half-formed.

So it’s with this in mind that he eventually gets up and dives into the pool with effortless grace, intentionally flattening his palm right as he hits the water and sending a wave directly up into Boyd’s face as he does so. Stiles is already in fits of laughter when he surfaces, and Boyd’s flatly unimpressed face makes Derek grin.

“Oh man- hold that face, baby, I need to get this for Snapchat,” Erica crows, pulling a phone from Derek-doesn’t-_ ever- _want-to-know-where, thanks very much, and taking a photo of Boyd. Derek distantly hears his own phone ping a moment later, and he’s going to be supremely unsurprised when he opens his phone later to find Boyd’s scowling face with a cat filter over it.

He turns to find Stiles to tell him so, but when he finally spots him he’s almost entirely across the pool and there’s an unfamiliar girl with an arm slung around his neck, the dark skin of her back and shoulders making Stiles’ seem even paler in comparison. They’re talking to three other girls, all around Stiles’ age and none of them familiar, and it’s making Derek’s teeth itch. He doesn’t listen into their conversation because his father always instilled in them the importance of privacy, not that Laura ever followed that one, but Stiles doesn’t look unhappy about the situation, so Derek turns his attention back to his betas and does his best to ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach.

He might only be partially successful in this, because Jackson claps a hand on his shoulder, his stupidly-handsome face a little too knowing, before having the impudence to try and dunk his alpha, a transgression which simply cannot go unpunished.

They climb out of the water an hour later and fall upon the cooler Jackson and Isaac brought, divvying up sandwiches, bottles of soda, bags of crisps and sliced fruit as they jostle each other playfully. They’ve just fallen into a comfortable silence when Stiles reappears, flopping down beside Derek and taking a drink from his can of lemonade instead of getting one of his own. He shifts so he can lie perpendicular to Derek, head on Derek’s thigh and sighs contentedly as he lets his eyes fall closed in the dappled shade.

“How’s Sara doing, Stiles?” Erica asks slyly as she licks pesto from her finger.

“Yeah, she’s good. I’m going to catch up with her and Hayley tomorrow, go see a movie at seven.”

There’s a pointed silence for a moment and Derek can feel the eyes of his pack settle on him. He focuses on eating and tries not to let anything show on his face.

“Oh _ really?” _ Isaac asks, needling Stiles for more information.

Stiles rolls his head and practically assassinates him with how dry the look he sends is. “Yes, really. And their friend Danielle asked if you’d be free, asshole, so knock it off or you can find your own fun tomorrow. Alone.”

“Wait, what?” Isaac asks, his tone changed in a hurry. “Danielle? Jacobs?”

“Mmm,” Stiles hums noncommittally, making Boyd smirk. “What about you, alpha-mine?” he adds, looking up at Derek. “Wanna beat the heat and waste ninety minutes of your life watching something you’ll probably regret as it happens?”

Derek cocks and eyebrow at him. “I think it would probably be less of a date if I went with you as a fifth wheel,” he manages to say with dry amusement, accidentally dropping a potato chip on Stiles’ face on purpose.

Unconcerned, Stiles just grabs the chip and pops it into his mouth, grinning unrepentantly up at Derek. “Not a date,” he mumbles around his mouthful. “Her taste in movies is just as shit as mine. Besides,” he adds, his smile going sly and a little bit evil, “it was all a ploy for Danielle to get Isaac alone in a darkened room so she can get handsy and try and get to second.”

“Oh my _ god,” _ Isaac says, sounding like he’s considering hyperventilating.

As punishment, Derek runs his finger up the side of his sweating soda can to collect the condensation there and sticks it in Stiles’ ear before leaning over to run a consoling hand down the back of Isaac’s neck. He takes a moment to be glad that Sara is apparently a moron and possibly blind for not asking Stiles to the movies as a date, but is broken from his scornful contemplation when an ice cube is slipped down the back of his shorts.

His yelp is nothing if not humiliating, but Derek takes the opportunity and is on Stiles before the human can make a break for it, pinning him to the picnic blanket with his hands over his head, Stiles laughing up into his face with his eyes squeezed shut and his head tilted back, and the echo of Derek’s self control snapping sounds like an overstretched rubber band finally giving up the ghost.

He leans forward so they’re pressed together chest to chest and runs his nose from the hollow of Stiles’ throat up to the hinge of his jaw. “Shall I pick you up at six, then?” he asks, catching the hitch of Stiles’ breath and the unconscious roll of his hips up against Derek’s before Derek fully abuses his werewolf strength and speed to scoop Stiles up and dump him into the pool. His heart thumps erratically when Stiles breaks the surface mid-laugh before sinking back beneath the water with both hands raised and giving him the bird, the length of his body amorphous and pale beneath the bright ripples. He’s so caught up in his observation that Stiles gets the jump on him, erupting out of the water to hook a hand in the leg of his shorts and tug hard enough to compromise his balance so he’s forced to dive over Stiles’ head. He switches direction as soon as he can and heads back to Stiles with a few powerful strokes, popping up right in front of him and throwing his legs around Stiles’ waist to grin triumphantly at him.

To his credit, Stiles wraps his arms around the back of Derek’s hips and holds him in place, widening his own stance to keep them both steady in the water, rolling his affectionately at Derek’s expression. “Yes, yes,” he huffs dismissively, “you are the apex predator, I hope you’re pleased with yourself. Got the human right where you wanted him, huh?”

There’s fondness in Stiles’ voice, and his heart is steady, and Derek thinks _ This is it, this is the perfect time to tell him how I feel, _ so of course what he actually says is this:

“What, nice and close and between my thighs?”

It’s like the entire universe just stops. Stiles freezes, his eyes getting wider and wider, every single kid at the damn pool stops their screaming and laughing, the waves in the pool halt in place and Derek distinctly hears Erica say “oh my fucking _ god!” _ with an unholy amount of glee in her voice that sounds like it’s coming from a million miles away.

Stiles’ arms around Derek tighten for a moment before he suddenly lets go and the universe rolls back into place, the sounds of the pool suddenly overwhelming as Stiles waits, not meeting Derek’s eyes, for him to get down. Derek resists for a moment, wanting to cling even closer, before reluctantly letting his legs drop until his feet are on the smooth tiles and he’s staring at Stiles’ stricken expression.

“I didn’t think you’d be that cruel,” Stiles says eventually, then turns and hauls himself out of the pool in one smooth movement, gathers up his things and leaves.

He’s past the turnstile by the time Derek regains sensation in his legs and he launches out of the pool to follow Stiles out into the carpark, catching him as he’s wrapping the towel around his waist and getting into the jeep.

“I meant it,” Derek tells him desperately, catching the door as Stiles goes to close it and Stiles jerks, startled, and fumbles the keys away from the ignition to drop to the car floor. “Ever since I saw you that morning at the cafe when I-” he swallows hard, “when I ran away, it’s like I suddenly turned around and there you were, all grown up beautiful and warm and clever and funny, and I didn’t know what to do about it jesus fucking _ christ _ my feet are _ burning on this asphalt, fuck.” _

Stiles sighs and leans over to unlock the passenger side door, Derek gratefully taking the wordless invitation and getting into the jeep while Stiles finally gets it started and cranks the aircon right up.

“You were saying?” he says, ever braver than Derek, his lovely brown eyes steady and for once giving nothing of his thoughts away.

“I…” Derek falters for a moment, acutely aware of the water dripping out of his hair and the way the aircon is starting to raise goosebumps on his arms. “I saw you, really saw who you were, who you had become and I wanted you. For myself. Not to keep or protect, exactly, but I wanted you to be mine so I could be yours and it’s been a really long time since I’ve thought that about anything.” He stops there, desperately hoping he won’t have to spell out for Stiles exactly how terrified that prospect had made him, how guilty he had felt when he’d found himself wanting something simply for the sake of having it.

The silence goes on for long enough that Derek feels like screaming when Stiles finally speaks.

“I know,” he says matter-of-factly. “I don’t know who told you that you have a good poker face, because you really don’t. I saw the way you looked at me that day, and then the day after that and the day after that. I also know you, and I knew you’d be struggling with finally realising that I’m not some obnoxious sixteen-year-old pain in the ass and reconciling that with finally wanting something for yourself that wasn’t a basic requirement of subsistence or for the good of the pack. That’s why I waited, Derek. I gave you time and space, and I came around every now and then so you could get to know me as this new person you’d suddenly realised I was. I hoped that maybe once you figured it out you’d give me a shot.”

His words are simple and his tone straight forward, and Derek can hear the _ “But…” _ coming, so he heads it off at the pass. “You’ve helped me change,” he says, the honesty scalding his throat. “You’ve helped me become someone I like, most days, an alpha I can be proud of. I could have done it without you, maybe, but I’m glad I didn’t have to. And I’m so scared of messing this up and having to do it all without you at my side, so I’m sorry if I made you think this was all a joke, or that it means less to me than it does. Than you do. Because you… I value you above anyone else. I… I’m starting to love you, I think, to fall in love with you. And that terrifies me.”

He’s horrified to feel the prickle and burn behind his eyes and he looks away, forces himself to release the tie on his shorts where he’s wrapped it so tightly around his finger in terrified agitation that the skin has gone a dusky blue colour.

Stiles shifts in his seat and hums a note under his breath. “Look, to be honest, I was kind of distracted by the water running down your chest,” he says eventually, teasingly enough that Derek knows he’s lying. “For what it’s worth, I love you too. But I’m not in a rush for things to change, if that’s not something you’re comfortable with.”

“With all the change you’ve brought to my life I trust that change- at least where you’re concerned- is not always guaranteed to be a bad thing.”

Stiles’ smile starts small and slow, but quickly blooms wide and wicked. “I can’t wait to prove you right,” he says, then throws the jeep into reverse and pulls out of the lot.

* * *

“I hope Isaac is getting a lift home,” Stiles gasps from where he’s sat in Derek’s lap in the pushed-back passenger seat of the Camaro, hands clasping rhythmically at his shoulders as Derek licks every exposed inch of skin on his throat and collarbones, “because he’ll be insufferable once he gets a whiff of what’s gone on here.”

“We’ve not actually done anything,” Derek tells him distractedly, pausing a moment to allow Stiles’ pulse to thrum against his tongue.

Capitalising on his distraction, Stiles began to undo his pants. “We’re about to,” he promised, humming happily under his breath as he got his hands on Derek’s cock, drawing it carefully out before petting it with covetous hands. “Do you have lube? I want your cock in me.”

“Oh shit,” Derek groans, slapping Stiles’ hands out of the way to press the heel of his hand to his dick as his lower stomach clenched with arousal. “No, I don’t have lube, jesus christ Stiles.”

“What kind of Boy Scout _ are _ you?” Stiles demands, popping his own button and fumbling for a moment before he lines their cocks up and grips them firmly in one large hand, using the other to cup Derek’s face and kiss him senseless.

“Excuse me for not facilitating your deviancy,” Derek laughs breathlessly when Stiles Draws back to begin working them together. “Christ, your _ hands, _ Stiles,” he groans.

“Gotta make it quick,” Stiles tells him, “the movie ends in about one minute. I mean, I don’t care, but I know you were sad when Isaac frosted you after he walked in on us in the kitchen last week.”

“Can’t imagine why he’d be upset about seeing his alpha come all over you,” Derek shoots back, making a punched-out sound as Stiles’ thumb swiped over the head of his dick.

“Agreed,” Stiles pants back, biting gently at Derek’s jaw as his hand continues moving, “he’s weak. I, personally, am always happy to see your dick.”

“Can’t say I’m sorry to hear it,” Derek laughs, and it’s not much longer before Derek is coming, Stiles following a moment later to slump forward against Derek as they breathe heavily together.

They’re disturbed a moment later with Isaac slapping his palm flat against the front passenger-side window. “Fuck you both, I’m getting a lift home with Dani.”

“Don’t be like that,” Stiles calls out with a laugh, “jealousy’s not a good look on you.”

“Yeah,” comes a feminine voice, “green’s really not his colour, is it?”

“Hey, Dani!” Stiles calls happily.

“Hi, Stilinski; hi, Derek.”

“This is awkward,” Derek calls back.

“It wouldn’t be if you didn’t have your cock out,” Isaac snipes back, his voice fading as he and Danielle walk away from the Camaro.

“You’re perpetually awkward, you ridiculously lanky bastard,” Stiles shouts, then starts to laugh at the resigned expression on Derek’s face. “Come on, gorgeous, take me home. There’s lube there.”

Derek helps untangle them and- once they’re extricated, tidied up and tucked away- presses his incredible, impossible boy against the side of the car gently and with intent, and kisses him senseless. “I love you,” he promises, drowning in the way Stiles’ entire face lights up in response.

“I know you do. And I love you too,” he says, sounding bewildered, but his heart rate doesn’t skip and Derek is so fucking happy in this moment that he feels like he could burst. “Come on, you big softie, let’s go home.

“Okay,” Derek smiles. “Okay.”


End file.
